Highly respected and influential Destination Blogger comes back from a blogmeet and posts almost nothing for two weeks; world keeps turning SHOCKAH.

So, explain this to me.

I’ve been weighing myself every weekday morning for about six weeks now. Frustratingly, and despite making a conscious effort to watch what I eat (K’s got me on starvation rations), my weight continues to oscillate between two fixed points: 11:4 and 11:8. (That’s stones and pounds; can’t be arsed to do metric conversions.)

Indeed, the only time I’ve ever dipped below 11:4 was over the weekend of the Secret London Gathering Of Extremely Nervous People With Weblogs, where a combination of a) forgetting to eat anything more than railway sandwiches and b) a heightened state of anxiety at Facing One’s Peers sent me briefly plummeting to 11:3 and a bit.

Yesterday, I enjoyed a large cooked FREE! lunch at Broadway cinema (the third occasion where blogging has earnt me a free lunch, but we’ll come to that another time), before chowing down on another large cooked FREE! supper at The Dragon. (Part office social, part colleague’s leaving do; see you around, A.)

I then proceeded to sit on my fat arse in the same pub for the best part of six hours, during the course of which I necked five pints of Adnams bitter. Not what you might call one of my healthiest days, then.

Perhaps this would be a good moment to explain my morning getting-out-of-bed routine, which is precision gauged to deliver optimal results. Whereas in the old Who Gives A F**k If I’m Fat days, I would…